


like thunder under earth, the sound it makes

by carrythesky



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Smut, ksw: satisfying saturday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-07-15 13:55:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16064513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carrythesky/pseuds/carrythesky
Summary: His old man used to say  — if you’re gonna do something wrong, Frankie, do it right.





	like thunder under earth, the sound it makes

**Author's Note:**

> ….GUYS I WROTE PORN.
> 
> (aka an AU in which Frank makes his way to Karen’s place after the hotel bombing. Hurt/comfort, a whole lotta angst, absolutely no semblance of a plot, and probably some medical inaccuracies because I really just wanted to write the smut.)

His old man used to say  — if you’re gonna do something wrong, Frankie, do it right.

 

Well, shit — guess the joke’s on him. He’d laugh, if it didn’t hurt just to fuckin’ breathe. His arm is a deadweight, cradled to his torso as he follows his feet, stumbling, from the hotel, and he thinks sharply of those old marionette dolls Lisa used to play with when she was little, nothing but string holding their limbs together.

 

(What’s holding you together, Frankie boy? 

 

He’s not sure he could answer even if he wanted to.)

 

.

 

.

 

The flowers are still in her windowsill. He focuses on that, keeps his eyes fixed on them even as he sags against the fire escape. Every inch of him aches — his field of vision splinters like a kaleidoscope when he blinks, but the roses —

 

He thinks of Karen, bleeding. Red on those white, white petals.

 

Frank heaves himself up, and the world lurches with him. He can hear himself breathing, fast and wet like someone’s kneading his lungs into a pulp. The window’s an arm’s length away, so he staggers into it, bracing a splayed hand against the glass. It slides open with a hiss, when he tugs at it.

 

He grinds his teeth together, to keep from laughing. After every fuckin’ thing she’s been through, she still —

 

Her place is the same. At least he thinks it is —  everything’s sliding out of focus again, narrowing like a scope. Frank gropes blindly for something, anything to keep him upright, but he must black out for a second or two, because when he he blinks, he’s on the ground.

 

Karen’s hovering over him. Her hand is on his shoulder, warm even through the fabric of his shirt.

 

“Jesus, Frank,” she breathes. She sounds — scared, he thinks, and he almost laughs again, because he didn’t think she was afraid of anything, because it’s fuckin’ hilarious _he’s_ the thing she’s decided to waste her fear on. He wants to tell her as much, he wants to —

 

“Y’didn’t — lock your window,” he says instead.

 

For a moment she says nothing. He can’t get a read on her face, probably because he’s about two seconds from going unconscious, but he tries anyways, catalogues the pinched line of her mouth and the column of her throat as she swallows. She’s scared, she’s pissed, she’s —

 

It startles him, when she laughs. “Frank, I swear to _christ_ —”

 

Karen dips her head, hair sliding over her face like a curtain. Her hand is still on his shoulder, and that’s how he can tell she’s shaking, laughing so hard her whole body’s convulsing with it.

 

“So this —” he rasps, “this is funny, huh?”

 

She only laughs harder at that, which — is okay, actually, because the sound stirs something to life in his gut, slow like sun-warmed honey. He’s never heard her laugh like this. He could listen to her do it all day, he thinks, even like this, battered and bleeding on her apartment floor.

 

“Shit, I’m sorry,” she’s gasping, “I’m sorry, it’s just — you’re _here._ You’re — here, in my apartment, after —”

 

She drops her face into her hands, and for a brief moment he thinks she’s laughing again, but — no, her breathing is slower, fragmented. The warm spot in his stomach turns to ice.

 

“Hey,” he says. He feels far away from her, so he props himself up on his good arm, tilts his head and tries to catch her gaze. Bright spots burst like fireworks in his periphery, but he doesn’t care, he doesn’t fuckin’ care. “Hey, Karen — ”

 

“It’s okay,” she says, swiping at her eyes. “It’s okay, Frank, come on —”

 

They stand together, slowly. His left arm is slung around her neck, but the movement still jostles his other side, sends a fissure of pain up through his shoulder girdle. He hisses through his teeth. Karen threads her fingers through his, squeezes gently. “You good?”

 

He looks at her then, really looks at her like he did in the elevator. Her eyes are wide, tracing every line of his face, every angle and edge. He can feel her trembling, from shock or supporting his weight or — something else, he’s not sure, but she’s still here, holding him up, keeping him on his goddamn feet.

 

He shouldn’t — he shouldn’t do what he does next. It’s the pain, he thinks, it’s making his head fuzzy, but he leans in anyways, presses his lips to her temple. Her hair is soft, against his cheek, the smell of her shampoo filling his nose and his lungs, clean and sweet.

 

“Think —” he mumbles into her hair — “think I’m good, now.”

 

Karen squeezes his hand again. She sways, holding him up, but Frank knows — she won’t let him fall.

 

.

 

.

 

They make it as far as the couch before his knees give out.

 

“Just sit tight, okay?” Karen says as she eases him down, and then she’s moving away, towards the kitchen. He hears her rummaging around for something in one of the cabinets.

 

“Yeah, okay,” he croaks, or tries to. His throat feels like it’s been scrubbed with sandpaper. He closes his eyes for a second, just a second, and when he opens them again, Karen’s crouching next to him on the floor. She’s got a glass of water in one hand and there’s a med kit open at her feet.

 

“Here,” she says, handing him the glass and three ibuprofen.

 

Frank forces himself to drink slowly. “Don’t suppose you have anything stronger?”

 

Karen gives him a look, but he can see the corners of her mouth twitching. “Let’s do your arm, first. Get it out of the way.”

 

“Yes, ma’am,” Frank says, handing her the glass of water. She pushes up on her knees so she’s eye-level with him, and grips his arm below the elbow.

 

“Ready?” she asks, and he nods, keeps his eyes on her face even when she looks down at his arm. “On three, yeah? One, two —”

 

There’s a popping sound, a jolt of pressure. His shoulder throbs in protest, but the stabbing pain is gone. He blows out the breath he was holding. It really shouldn’t surprise him that Karen knows what she’s doing. She’d have made one hell of a marine, he thinks, and immediately regrets it, horrified at the ease with which he inserted her into his past, blurred those boundaries.

 

“Hey,” she’s saying, eyes wide with worry. “Hey, you still with me?”

 

Frank feels heavy, like he’s being pulled straight through the floor. He’s not sure which way is up anymore, he’s not sure of anything, except that coming here was a mistake. He shouldn’t be here, looking into her blue, blue eyes, he shouldn’t be bleeding all over her couch.

 

He’s not sure he would do anything differently, given the chance.

 

“Yeah, I’m good,” he says. “I’m here.”

 

(What’s holding you together, Frankie boy?

 

He thinks he’s starting to figure it out.)

 

.

 

.

 

It takes him a second, when he comes to. He shoots up, disoriented, fist swiping at empty air  —

 

“Whoa, easy —”

 

Frank blinks, and Karen’s there. She’s got a hand around his wrist. “Easy, Frank.”

 

He blows a breath out through his nose. “What —”

 

“You’ve been out for awhile. Resting.” She gently eases his arm back down. “And I really, _really,_ don’t want to reset your shoulder again, so — easy does it, yeah?”

 

Frank looks from her to his arm, gives his fingers an experimental flutter. Good as new. It’s coming back, now — he remembers Karen setting his arm, stitching his forehead, him gritting his teeth and keeping his eyes on her, just her.

 

He remembers feeling delirious, watching her. Wanting —

 

Frank pushes himself up. It’s early evening, judging by the angled shadows stretching across the living room. He’s on the couch, and Karen’s perched next to him, fingers lingering on his forearm. She’s changed her clothes, but the purple-blue bags beneath her eyes tell him she didn’t rest while he was out. Guilt twists his insides.

 

What the hell was he thinking, coming here?

 

“You, uh —” he sputters, glancing away. “You really should lock your window.”

 

Karen snorts. “You’re unbelievable.”

 

“So I’ve been told.”

 

She’s quiet for a beat, so he darts a glance her direction — but she’s smiling, softly. He wishes she wouldn’t. He wants to grab her and shake her, shake and shake until the smile slides from her lips and she finally sees, finally _gets it,_ who he is, what kind of man he is. He doesn’t deserve that smile. He doesn’t deserve anything as beautiful as she is in this moment.

 

Get away from this, he remembers telling her, once. Get away from me. Only he’s the one who couldn’t stay away, couldn’t stay out of her orbit. Frank’s never been one to believe in things like fate or karma, but that shit — that shit’s funny.

 

God’s kind of funny, even.

 

“Hey,” he says. “I’m — I’m sorry, yeah? Bustin’ in on you like this — ‘m really sorry, Karen.”

 

Her thumb is moving, tracing lazy circles against his arm. “I meant it, when I said I care about what happens to you. You know that, right?”

 

“I —” he clears his throat, tries to focus on something other than where her skin is touching his. “I figured you’d be, uh — tired of my bullshit, by now.”

 

She laughs sharply. “I’m not gonna lie, Frank. You coming back into my life — it hasn’t been easy. After Schoonover — I thought that was it. I didn’t think I’d ever see you again. But, all of this —” her eyes flick from his arm to the stitches running down his temple. “This is your life, Frank. It’s your _life._ It’s not bullshit, at least not to me.”

 

He meets her eyes. Her face tangled in light and shadow, from this angle, like those abstract paintings that almost look real, something and nothing all at once. He wants to reach out and touch her face, make sure she’s real. He wants —

 

What, Frank? What do you want?

 

(If you’re gonna do something wrong —)

 

It’s not his body, anymore. These aren’t his hands, hooking around the nape of Karen’s neck to pull her close, not his lips, slanting up to meet hers. It’s not him.

 

But — it has to be, because she’s kissing him back. Her lips are slightly chapped, rougher than he’s expecting, but he feels her holding back, the uncertainty even as her mouth moves with his. He’s feeling it too. Every nerve in his body is humming like a livewire, potential energy ready to bolt, turn tail and run. He should. He should get as far away from her as he can.

 

He kisses her harder, instead.

 

Her lips part as she sucks in a surprised breath, and he seizes the opportunity to catch her lower lip between his teeth. Karen makes a sound low in her throat, and — christ, it’s been awhile since he made a woman sound like that. Her hands are on his arm, still, like she’s bracing herself against him, but there’s still too much space between them, so he slides an arm around her waist and pulls her flush against him.

 

“What —” she gasps in between kisses — “what the hell is happening, now?”

 

Frank kisses her deeply, slips his tongue between her teeth. “No fuckin’ idea,” he manages, breathless. “You okay?”

 

She pulls back, then. Her breathing matches his, fast and shallow, and for a split second, he thinks this might be it. She’s calling it, she’s done. Probably would be for the best, he thinks. She always was smarter than him.

 

“Why did you come here?” she asks.

 

He shakes his head. “C’mon, Karen, I don’t —”

 

“You do.” Her eyes are bright, searching his face. “You know, Frank. Just say it.”

 

He could. A million responses crowd behind his teeth — it’d be so easy, to open his mouth and let one of them slip past. After everything he’s put her through, Karen deserves this. She deserves something true. She deserves a hell of a lot more than he can give. There’s pieces of himself buried in the cold ground with his family, and he knows, he sure as shit knows that those pieces are gone for good. He’s not sure if the rest of him is enough.

 

He’s not sure if it’s enough, to be broken.

 

Frank dips his forehead to rest against hers. “I don’t — have the answers, Karen. This thing, you ‘n me —” he lets his eyes drift shut. For a moment, all he can hear, all he can feel is Karen’s breathing, out and in. “I can’t lose this, Karen. I can’t lose you.”

 

She tilts her head up, lips ghosting over the corner of his mouth. “I’m right here, Frank.”

 

( — do it right, Frankie. Do it right.)

 

They come together again, slowly, his hands cradling her waist, fingers splayed just beneath her ribs as she settles on his knees. He takes his time, kissing her — his lips drift to the soft hollow of her cheek, then down, tracing her jawline. He wants to savor every second of this, the way her skin feels under his mouth and the stuttered little sounds she’s making. He’s going straight to hell for this, he knows it, he _knows,_ but that doesn’t matter, not when she’s threading her hands through his hair, fingers curling just hard enough to sting. Her hitches ragged in her throat, and he thinks it might be the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard.

 

“Frank —” she gasps — and no, _that’s_ the most beautiful sound, his name in her mouth.

 

He responds by pressing his mouth to her collarbone. She — shudders, tipping her head back, and the movement grinds her hips forward, against his thigh. He’s halfway to hard in a second, canting upwards to chase the friction.

 

Karen seems to notice, because she bears down on him again, harder, this time. Hazy-hot desire shoots straight through him — his chest, his dick, everything _aches_ with wanting her, wanting nothing but her. His hand drifts south, drags across the thin band of her sleep shorts.

 

“This okay?” he asks the sweet, soft curve of her clavicle. When he looks up, she’s watching him hungrily. Her eyes never leave his face as she dips her hand beneath her shorts.

 

“Meet you there,” she says, and the fuckin’ _noise_ he makes is — undignified, to say the very least. Karen smiles, her head falling back again. He’s dizzy, looking at her, eyes tracking the long column of her throat down to the juncture of her thighs, splayed wide over his as she works herself.

 

He’s in over his fuckin’ head, but that doesn’t stop him from sliding a hand past her underwear and pressing the pad of his thumb to her cunt.

 

“Oh,” she sighs, eyes screwing up. Her hand is moving, the wet, rhythmic sound rushing in his ears — he almost misses the half-choked noise she makes when he digs a knuckle into her clit.  

 

“I got you,” he pants against her throat. She’s so, so warm. His skin burns everywhere he’s touching her. “I got you, yeah?”

 

It’s muscle memory, after that, his fingers skimming and teasing and slip-sliding against hers until she’s good and slick. Nothing is real, nothing beyond the slope of her body as she arches back, the bite of her nails digging half-moon imprints into his shoulder.

 

Danger, he thinks, as together they slip their fingers inside her.

 

“Jesus, _fuck_ —” she hisses as they stumble through the first few strokes, and she drops her forehead to his shoulder. “Just —” her other hand closes over his, and he freezes, holding his breath. “I’m okay, just give me a second.”

 

He’s terrified, suddenly. She feels so fragile beneath his hands, every inch of her trembling and the way his entire palm cups the back of her skull. He’s killed, with these hands, and worse — all that ugly shit, and he’s touching her with them, wanting the warmth of her skin even as he knows it’s wrong.

 

Karen pulls back slightly, changing up the angle and easing back down with a slow swirl of her hips. “Okay,” she says, “okay, Frank.”

 

He swallows past the ball in his throat. “You sure?”

 

Karen just smirks, and he feels her finger press against his, a long, languid stroke. Her other arm twines around his neck as she buries her face there, her breath swooping hot and fast against his skin. Everything goes concave, his only reference point his finger, and hers, as they thrust together into her sweet, hot center.   

 

“C’mon,” she pleads between gritted teeth, a sound that goes right to his dick. He’s not sure if she’s talking to herself or to him, but he pumps his finger faster, slick and hot and hard. “Oh — _god_ —” Karen snags his earlobe between her teeth, and he growls, strumming a rapid staccato against her swollen clit in retaliation. It’s almost too much for him, the way she’s matching him stroke for stroke, but he wants it. He wants all of it, less and slow but also more, _now._ He wants her to fall apart.

 

He feels it when she does, her tight walls clenching around his finger as she goes taut against him. “Frank,” she gasps, shoulders heaving with the force of the aftershock. “Frank —”

 

“Shh shh,” he breathes in her ear, “It’s okay, Karen, you’re okay.”

 

He’s not just telling her. It’s a mantra in his head, turned over and over again like a record skipping. You’re okay, he thinks as they cling to each other, her cheek soft against his. You’re okay, you’re okay. Karen’s heartbeat’s a rapid-fire flutter, through her shirt, and he wonders if she can hear his, rushing like thunder in his ears. His brain’s reeling with what this means, what happens next — but his hand’s still between Karen’s thighs, moving softly. He’s still here.

 

He’s okay.


End file.
